Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“Now,” Dexter said, looking abruptly serious, “this is not to say that I did not entertain certain…”

The ahhh paused, hovered tremulously over the Great Plains.

“… call them… if you might… well, misgivings…”

Amber waves of grain trembled.

Dexter spoke gravely, as if trying to look like a Daniel Chester French statue of himself. “I have, of course, certain responsibilities, transient and historical… but there are times-and this, surely, is one of them-when a leader, in order to lead, must follow. And so, let me be the first to say, as leader, that I will vote to approve your nomination.”

The room erupted into applause. The Committee members, most of whom were by now casting withering looks at their sure-to-be transient “leader,” began one by one to join in the applause.

Pepper’s nomination was approved by the Senate Judiciary Committee 18-0 (one abstention) and 91-7 (two abstentions) by the full Senate.

Graydon Clenndennynn warmly accepted congratulations for his stewarding of the nomination, and dropped hints that it had been his idea all along. President Vanderdamp’s approval ratings shot up another few points. Complimented on his role, Hayden Cork mustered a tight smile and changed the subject.

Dexter Mitchell went on Greet the Press to assert manfully that there are times when “the courageous thing to do is to accept the will of the people and move on.” He quoted a leader of the 1848 Revolution in France, someone named Alexandre Ledru-Rollin, who had declared, completely sans irony, “There go the people. I must follow them. I am their leader.”

Though he put on a brave front, Dexter Mitchell felt inwardly humiliated. His fellow committee members now viewed him with outright loathing. There was murmuring (of high senatorial quality) in the cloakroom about the need for “fresh leadership.” Nights he lay awake grinding his molars after failing to satisfy his wife maritally. How, he wondered, had it come to this? Three decades of dutiful, steady, occasionally brilliant public service-to be outgunned and outshone by some chick TV judge from Texas. Where-Dexter Mitchell asked the ceiling gods-was the justice in that?

A few days later he took some satisfaction (however guilty) in reading in the Washington Post that Judge Cartwright’s marriage was apparently unraveling.

“Associate justice-designate Pepper Cartwright’s office today issued a statement announcing that she and her husband, producer Buddy Bixby, are ‘amicably separating’ after seven years of marriage.”

Fortunately, certain details did not make the paper.

Pepper had returned, triumphant, from Washington, eager to make up and move on with Buddy, only to find that her key no longer opened the door to their apartment. When she called him on her cell phone to ask what was going on, he informed her in a businesslike voice that she was no longer welcome.

“Buddy,” Pepper said, tapping the toe of her cowboy boot on the marble of the entryway, “what are you talking about? This is our home. You can’t just go changing the locks. What’s gotten into you?”

“If you will recall,” Buddy said coolly, “the apartment is in my name. But then you’re pretty casual about remembering the wording of certain documents. Like employment contracts.”

Pepper groaned. “You still going on about that? I thought you were going to sue me for breach of contract.”

“I was. Until you sicced the FBI on me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, ha-ha-ha. Like you know nothing about it.”

“I haven’t got the slightest idea what you’re talking about. But I would like to get into my apartment. Among other things, I got to pee.”

“Try the coffee shop around the corner. They have a restroom.” He hung up.

On her way to the coffee shop, cussing and fuming, Pepper called Hayden Cork.

“Do you know anything about the FBI visiting my husband and making some kind of threat? He’s having a conniption the size of Guatemala about it.”

There was a lengthy pause. “I have no direct knowledge of such an event,” Hayden said.

Pepper said, “Is that ‘no’ in Washingtonese?”

“That’s all I’ll say,” Hayden said. “Congratulations on the Senate vote. The President is very pleased. He looks forward to the swearing-in.” He hung up.

Fighting hot flashes, Pepper called Graydon Clenndennynn, reaching him aboard someone’s jet en route to Tokyo.

“My dear,” he said mellifluously, “you don’t make the whistle in this town by knowing things you don’t need to know. My warmest congratulations to you.” He hung up.

She called Buddy, who didn’t answer. She left a message.

“I made a few calls. No one’ll tell me anything, but I guess something happened. Whatever it was, I didn’t have anything to do with it. You’re going to have to believe that. Either way, I hope it isn’t going to end like this for us, leaving messages on each other’s phones.”

The next day after an uneasy sleep in the fetal position, she heard a knock on her hotel room door. Expecting maid service, Pepper opened it to find a man she instantly recognized as a process server, who with some embarrassment handed her two sets of documents, one a suit for divorce, another for breach of contract.

Pepper accepted the papers. She told the man, “Hold on.” She returned and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“What’s this?” he said.

“It’s a tip,” Pepper said.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Two days later, the New York Post reported that Judge Cartwright had tipped the process server. The item appeared under the headline CLASS ACTION.

Figuring that Buddy would leak it that he’d served her with papers, Pepper decided she might as well get in the last lick.

DEXTER MITCHELL was at his desk morosely contemplating his future, which, as Judiciary Committee Chairman, did not promise to be long-term. His secretary entered with the news that a Mr. Buddy Bixby was on the phone. His mind raced. What would he be calling about? If it was information that could torpedo his wife’s nomination, he was a day late and a dollar short. Cautiously but curiously, he took the call.

“Senator Mitchell, I’d like to discuss a proposition with you.”

“Proposition,” Dexter said. “Could you be a little more precise?”

“Not over the phone. Is there some way we could meet privately? It probably wouldn’t make sense for us both to be public, given the situation.”

Alarm bells rang in Dexter’s brain, but he was intrigued. He told Bixby that he would be on the Acela train from Washington to Stamford, Connecticut, the next day, seated in the last seat on the last car.

The next afternoon as the train stopped at Penn Station, Buddy Bixby slid into the empty seat next to Senator Mitchell.

“Feels like a spy movie, huh?” Buddy said.

“What can I do for you?” Dexter said.

“In addition to Courtroom Six,” Buddy said, “I produce a number of other TV shows.”

“Yes,” Dexter said. “People jumping off bridges and eating themselves to death.”

Buddy laughed, “Yeah, well, those are the ones that pay for the quality shows.”

“Mr. Bixby, I’ll be getting off in Stamford in about thirty-five minutes from now. Shall we get to the point?”

“You bet. Ever considered going on TV, Senator?”

Dexter stared. “I ‘go on TV’ all the time. Recently, in fact. You may have seen me. I was on with your wife.”

“Nah. Your own show.”

“What kind of show?” Dexter said, trying not to sound too interested. “I’m not leaping off any bridges. Or gaining five hundred pounds.”

“Nothing like that. Senator, how’d you like to be President of the United States?”